


Coco: 1934

by Becky_Tailweaver



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 18:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14384415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becky_Tailweaver/pseuds/Becky_Tailweaver
Summary: Mexico, 1934: A shoemaker's boy dreaming of music embarks on a journey to connect with the estranged musician father he's never met, following a single long-hidden clue in the family portrait—a famous, skull-faced white guitar.The guitar has other plans.





	1. Chapter 1

Miguel ran away from home the very same day that Mamá smashed his guitar.

When he'd found that the picture of his family included _The Guitar_ with the unknown father figure, he'd thought his love of music was truly vindicated. Unfortunately, Mamá did not agree. In fact, she objected so vehemently to the sight of him with his battered, carefully-repaired guitar that she wrenched it from his grasp and proceeded to beat it into the ground until it was nothing but splinters, amidst a terrible rain of wrathful tears.

There was no apology and no softness to her when she ordered him back into the Zapatería. Coco watched from the doorway, her eyes wide, startled and pitying.

Sporting quite a few angry tears himself, Miguel shouted at his Mamá. An explosive tirade born from years of keeping quiet, of bottling up the music that threatened to burst from his every seam. Born from every sharp word when he forgot himself and hummed, every rap of his knuckles when he absentmindedly tapped out a beat. Day after week after year of stifling, suffocating silence, where his secret guitar was his only escape.

He didn't want to be in this stupid family any more.

While Mamá was staring at him in stunned outrage, Miguel turned and ran, clutching the tattered photo that had started all of this. The last thing he heard of his family was Coco calling after him, but he didn't care.

He didn't _care_.

 

* * *

 

 Miguel was convinced that the man in his family's picture was Ernesto de la Cruz.

For several years, he'd kept all of the posters and newspaper clippings he could get ahold of—the ones that showed De la Cruz grinning charmingly with his signature white guitar. The articles that talked about the man's rise to stardom, his touring schedules, his debut in the cinema—Miguel had them all, kept carefully folded in a tattered book in his secret attic corner.

That musty attic was also where he listened to a staticky, half-broken old radio, waiting on the edge of his seat for a De la Cruz song or interview to come on. He'd learned how to hold and handle a guitar by watching the mariachi in the town plaza—how to position his fingers, how to tune it, how to strum—but it was by copying the _sounds_ coming from his radio that he learned to play real music.

He'd always known that his father had been a walk-away musician, but now he had a picture of his family containing a white guitar with a skull motif he knew so well he'd hand-painted his own battered, foundling instrument to match it.

His guitar was gone. But Ernesto de la Cruz had the real one—the very same one that was in Miguel's family picture.

He also knew, thanks to his collection, that the singing star would next be performing a Día de Muertos concert at the newly-opened Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City—and Miguel had barely a day to get there.

 

* * *

 

 The skinny Xolo dog from the alleys of Santa Cecilia wouldn't stop following Miguel.

Nobody would give him a ride in their automobile when they thought the dog was with him, but it just wouldn't shoo. He'd seen the dog around for a long time, usually lurking in the food trash thrown out by restaraunts and families. It was friendly, unlike many of the wary strays around town, but Mamá wouldn't hear of him playing with it, so the best he could do was throw it some bones once in a while when he was taking out the trash.

In the end, he sneaked onto the back of a truck carrying a load of chiles and going in the general direction of Mexico City. The truck stopped in a bigger town when it got dark, allowing Miguel to get out of sight before the drivers caught him.

He had a handful of pesos in his pocket, tips and pay from his day of shining shoes in Santa Cecilia before everything went wrong, with which he was able to buy a tamale from a street cart. It was lonely, sitting on a bench outside a bar and eating without his family. At least the tamale was hot and well-made, but it didn't taste like Mamá's. Miguel refused to cry.

The local church was a typically complex stone building with plenty of nooks and crannies for him to tuck himself out of the chill night breezes. He only had his jacket, the one he was outgrowing and Coco had stitched the holes in the sleeves for him. He huddled as best he could, trying to stay warm and comfortable enough to rest.

He wasn't expecting to wake up the following morning with a skinny, warm dog curled up next to him.

 

* * *

 

 Miguel called the Xolo dog Dante, for lack of anything else.

He remembered the name had something to do with a journey through Hell—probably from one of Mamá's books—which was what this trip was turning out to be. He had to get to Mexico City by tonight, or he would miss De la Cruz. And he was hungry, tired, and starting to be really homesick.

No, he would not admit to being homesick.

Cramming into the cargo car of a train bound for Mexico City was noisy, smelly, and rough, not to mention dangerous. He knew he'd be punished severely if any of the train's workers found him. It didn't help that Dante refused to leave his side, tongue lolling happily and huffing noisily through it all. Miguel spent most of the trip leaning on the dog and idly examining the old family picture, studying the familiar face of the white guitar.

The man in the picture had left his family, but he left his music with Miguel. And if Miguel's old family wouldn't let him have any music, then he would find his _true_ kin where he could play music every day.

 

* * *

 

 Miguel only had enough coin for one more tamale after escaping the train station in Mexico City. Dante still wouldn't shoo, and there were probably authorities looking for a scruffy niño with a Xolo now. That luggage attendant had been entirely too surprised to find a sleepily blinking child and eagerly panting dog in his compartment—really, a squawk that loud was completely unnecessary.

The less said about Miguel's headlong flight from the train station, the better.

Once he was lost in the Día de Muertos crowds in the streets, however, he was golden. No one would spot one more boy amongst the parades. It gave him time to gawk around at the broad avenues, the throngs of people, the large and ornate buildings like nothing he'd seen back in Santa Cecilia. The grand structures were even bigger than the church!

All it took was an innocent little smile and some puppy-dog eyes to get him directions to Palacio de Bellas Artes and a few pan dulce from the celebrants. After that, all he had to do was follow the bright posters and signs pointing to Ernesto de la Cruz.

 

* * *

 

 The ushers guarding the front of the awe-inspiring music palace wouldn't let Miguel in, and not because of Dante.

Miguel didn't have a ticket, and could in no way afford one. The ushers dumped him into the street, while several of the well-to-do patrons tittered. Dante licked his face while he tried not to cry; he'd come all this way, left everything behind, and still had nothing. Miguel sniffled while he looked up at the palatial building, with its pure white walls, magnificent columns and bright windows. It was getting dark, and the concert would start soon.

He was running out of time. Hoisting himself up, he circled around the busy front entrance and scouted the sides of the structure. If he could sneak onto a chile truck and a passenger train, surely a stationary building should be easy to infiltrate.

Remarkably, it was.

Security was apparently designed to keep _adults_ out, but one rather skinny twelve-year-old could wriggle through a gap in an open window to tumble into the dark interior. Miguel found himself in a dim hallway, staring around open-mouthed until Dante fell in on top of him.

Shushing the dog, he straightened his jacket and crept through the hall, seeking the way backstage.

 

* * *

 

 Miguel hid in what he assumed was a closet when he heard angry men's voices coming down the hall toward him.

It was even darker when he closed the door after dragging Dante inside. Flinching back when he heard a door slam far too close, he tucked himself behind an obstruction—a shelf or a wardrobe or something—and listened to the irate, indistinguishable voices coming through the walls. Light startled him, but it was only coming in under another door that joined his current hiding space with an adjacent chamber. The voices were coming from there.

Miguel kept backing away, looking for a better place to hide just in case an adult burst into the room. Maybe he would have to wait until after the Día de Muertos concert, but either way he would have to stay out of sight. He wouldn't be able to do anything until he spoke to De la Cruz, showed him the picture and told him the truth.

He jumped when something loomed white like a ghost in the dimness just beside him. Dante pressing against his legs prevented him from moving away from it, so he stared in a moment of startled fear until his mind resolved the ghost into the familiar shape of a guitar placed on a stand.

A _white_ guitar.

A white guitar with a familiar design on the head stock.

Stunned, Miguel stared at the instrument, then at the room around him. His adjusting eyes made out shelves, hats, racks of costume, mirrors and counters stacked with props.

He had found De la Cruz's backstage _entirely by accident_.

Dante whined and pressed against the back of his knees, pulling Miguel from his stupor. If this was De la Cruz's guitar, then that meant his musical hero would be coming here soon to fetch it for the concert. He would be able to speak to him then.

Miguel stared at the guitar again. It gleamed, even in the dimness. It looked so smooth, so bright, compared to his shabby old replica, which was now in pieces probably residing in a dustbin. The white guitar was the most beautiful instrument he'd ever seen, and he wondered if it would sound even better in person than it did on the radio.

In awe, he reached out with hesitant fingers to touch the silver strings, the satin-smooth face. It seemed almost warm.

There was a breeze through the still air of the closed room, cool and sweet with the scent of cempasúchil petals just like in Santa Cecilia.

 _There you are, hermanito,_ whispered something that was not a voice, humming like guitar strings brushed by small fingers. _At last..._

Blinded by a golden glow, Miguel closed his eyes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Miguel opened his eyes, he was standing in a large business office surrounded by a crowd of walking, talking skeletons.

_All_ of them jumped. At least half of the skeletons screamed as well.

Miguel would never admit to screaming, but he did try to run from the sudden nightmare of hollowed eyes and bony, reaching hands. It took two of the blue-uniformed officers to snatch him up and hold on to him while they half-carried him kicking and yelling to a smaller office chamber. They made him sit in a chair before a large desk piled with files and papers, and held him there until he quieted.

Behind the desk was a short skeleton-man with eyeglasses. He looked like a clerk. He and the officers questioned Miguel about how he'd gotten there—Miguel himself wasn't very clear on that—and who he was, if he had any family in the Land of the Dead. Which was somehow where he was now.

"Mamá's parents died when she was young," he explained nervously, trying not to stare at the white, painted skull faces. It would be rude when they weren't being very scary at all, but actually speaking reasonably. "I don't know their names. And I think my papá was an orphan."

He watched the Clerk and the guards exchange a look, and wondered what it meant.

"See, here's the thing, niño," the Clerk said patiently. "You're under a curse. Not just any curse, either—a death curse. Which you can only get by messing with something that belongs to the wronged dead, something with the death curse attached to it."

"The last thing I touched was a guitar," Miguel confessed, hunching in the chair, "but the man it belongs to is alive!" Maybe someone had cursed the guitar and meant it for De la Cruz, and Miguel had intervened.

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain there is no one dead attached to the guitar? Might you have touched anything else?"

Miguel rapidly shook his head.

He watched the Clerk and the guards exchange another look, before the Clerk sighed. "The only way to get out from under a death curse is to find the wronged dead and have them undo it—get their blessing, using the magic of a cempasúchil petal—or figure out how to satisfy the terms of the curse and break it, which we have no way to know."

"So..."

"Nobody's much in the business of traditional death curses these days, niño. The last person this happened to was well before my time. Unless the owner of the cursed guitar is _dead_ , which you've insisted he isn't, you're stuck here in the Land of the Dead until the curse runs its course."

"What will happen then?" Miguel quavered.

The Clerk pointed at Miguel's left hand.

When Miguel found only white bone where his fingertip used to be, he fainted.

 

* * *

 

 Miguel woke up with the Clerk and the officer with the thick mustache standing over him. The Clerk was fanning him anxiously with a file folder.

"...don't know, at least he's still breathing. Niño? Miguel?" The Clerk leaned closer, still fanning, peering at Miguel's blinking eyes. "Oh, good. You're awake. Come on, then, up you go..."

With shaking hands, Miguel let the two skeletons help him back to his feet. He felt woozy and his head hurt, and all he could think about was glistening white bone moving like it was alive where his finger used to be. "What...what's happening to me...?"

"It's how most death curses go," spoke up the officer, his voice quiet and gravelly.

"That and the Land of the Dead isn't exactly a holiday destination for _living_ things," the Clerk harrumphed, straightening his green eyeshade. "To sum it up, young man, you have a very limited amount of time to remain alive. Since we don't know much about the exact sort of curse you're under I can only guess how long, but at the rate you're losing flesh...perhaps sunrise? Certainly no more than a full day."

"S-sunrise?" Miguel yelped, swaying on his feet. The officer hastily steadied him. "You mean...after tonight...I'll...?"

"You'll become a permanent resident here, I'm afraid." The Clerk was businesslike, but there was pity in his eyes, a hopeless kind of pity that made Miguel's chest ache and his knees start to tremble beneath him. "With no source here for your curse, I'm afraid that all we can do is make you comfortable until it runs its course."

"But...but my mamá, my family, they won't know what happened—!" His vision started to blur with tears.

"I'm very sorry, niño," said the Clerk, more briskly than he wanted to hear. "You can wait here at the Department. When the time comes, since you have no family here, one of the officers will walk you down to the San Gerónimo Children's Home. A counselor will assist you with filling out the requisite forms before you leave, so that you can be notified if and when any family members arrive in the future—"

"An _orphanage?_ " he yelped, drawing away from them. "You're sending me to an orphanage...f-for dead kids? I _have_ a family, I'm not dead!"

"I'm afraid it's only a matter of time," the Clerk sighed. "And since you are underage and with no known deceased family, you have no residence or legal guardians here. When an adult from your family arrives, you can—"

"I want to go home!" Miguel declared, but when he tried to back away further, the officer set a very firm hand on his shoulder, preventing him from moving.

"There's nothing we can do, son," the officer said in a gruffly gentle way. "We don't know of any way to bring you back into the Land of the Living."

" _You_ don't, but maybe someone else does!" Miguel insisted, trying to free himself from the bony hands. "Let me go!"

"It's not safe for a living person to go gallivanting about the Land of the Dead," the Clerk said, adjusting his glasses. "There are still bad sorts here that might try to use you for some unsavory purpose while you are still alive, likely to try to contact the living world, and...it doesn't bear thinking about, especially for a child. It's best if you just wait here quietly until tomorrow. I'm sorry, Miguel, but that's the best we can do. Jorge, if you would take him to one of the family rooms, maybe get him some water...?"

Looking stern and sad, the officer pulled him to the door. Miguel fought him along the way, unable to hold back his tears. "Let me go! I'm not dead! I want to go home! _Let go!_ "

Just outside the Clerk's office, they almost ran into another uniformed officer and a lanky skeleton in a purple jacket he was frog-marching through the front office room. "—could have been clocking out to visit my living family already," this new officer was grumbling at his captive, "but I have to haul _your_ obnoxious arse to lockup again—every _goddamn_ year—"

"Carlos! There is a child present!" the lanky skeleton protested, before he took a closer look at Miguel and gasped. "Ay! He's _alive_ —!"

"And he's none of your business, Héctor," the mustached officer stated, keeping his grip and pushing Miguel along before him as if to shield him from the other detainee's view. "Looks like you're in enough trouble as it is."

As they all trudged along almost in parallel for a few moments, Miguel's tear-streaked face turned up to glance at the tall lanky skeleton staring wide-eyed back at him. In that instant, something passed between them—an echo of determination, a shared desperation, a wily spark of inspiration.

"No! I wanna go home!" Still struggling against the mustachioed officer's grip, Miguel threw himself with a wail to the floor at the lanky skeleton's feet, almost dragging the startled Jorge down with him.

The lanky skeleton—Héctor?—took a step to the side and tripped over Miguel in such a dramatic sprawl that the two officers collided with each other and stumbled as well. Suddenly everything was a mess of clattering bones and flailing limbs and everyone else in the office was staring in incredulous dismay.

As limber as if he'd practiced for a circus tumble, Héctor rolled out of the mayhem and bounced to his feet with Miguel clutched under one arm. "Let's go, chamaco!"

The mustached officer made a grab for them from the floor, but like a thief with a freshly stolen jewelry box, Héctor slipped away from the reaching hands and lit out for the front doors. Miguel was jarred against rigid bone but didn't complain, hanging on to the skeleton's threadbare jacket for dear life.

There was yelling from behind, and another officer tried to bodily block them from the doors, but Miguel's long-legged ride spun nimbly around the tackle, cleared the queue control rail in one leap, and slammed into the office doors hard enough to rattle teeth. He scrabbled at the handle for a heart-pounding instant, and Miguel felt a hard bony hand grasping at his ankle before they all but fell through the opening.

Miguel kicked out blindly, knocking the reaching hands away, and the skeleton carrying him bolted out of the office like a spooked deer. Moments later, they were weaving without slowing through thick crowds in what seemed almost like a train station, leaving the frantic officers and angry shouts far behind.


	3. Chapter 3

Miguel's skeletal co-escapee didn't stop running until they were well away from the station and the office/police department/whatever it was they'd left behind. Even when he finally put the boy down, winding their way through darker, less busy side-streets, he continued to drag him along by the hand at a brisk pace, made brisker by how very long his legs were.

For the most part, Miguel followed willingly, almost _glad_ to have an adult willing to help him get away from the pitying, implacable authorities. The Clerk and the blue-uniformed guards had been willing to just put him in a room and watch him _die_ without even trying to help him, and he wanted nothing to do with them. He was starting to get out of breath, though, having to trot to keep up with the long strides of his...guide? Rescuer? Jailbreak buddy?

When his feet finally stumbled under him, nearly sending him to the cobblestones, the skeleton pulling him along finally seemed to remember he was there, turning to blink down at him with large eyes set in the deep black hollows of his skull. Miguel regained his balance and smiled gamely up at his companion, trying to hide his panting.

The skeleton's jaw worked for a second. "...okay," he finally said, looking around for a few moments before ducking them both into an alley beneath a trolley overpass. It was even dimmer there, and kind of dank, but the skeleton wasted no time sitting Miguel down on a crate—actually picking him up and sitting him there, like a little kid—before beginning to pace in a narrow arc around the spot.

"...Dios mío what was I _thinking_ , this is crazy," the skeleton was muttering as he orbited, worriedly tugging at his hair. "I'm just a bridge-jumper, a small fry, now they're gonna be after me for _kidnapping_ , or maybe even manslaughter if I let the kid break his neck—there's no guard rails in the Land of the Dead...!"

"Um...Señor, uh, H-Héctor...?" Miguel spoke up hesitantly, fairly certain he remembered the skeleton's name correctly.

The pacing skeleton once more focused on him as if surprised to see him there. "...just...just Héctor, chamaco. I'm nobody's señor."

"Oh..." That was kind of neat, kind of daring and impolite, getting to call a grownup he didn't know by their first name alone. "I-I'm Miguel. Thanks for...helping me out back there."

"No problem." The skull face twitched into half of a little smile, a bit frantic at the edges as he sighed and plopped down on another crate. "Well, maybe kind of a huge problem."

"I guess I kinda got you in worse trouble." Miguel winced. "I'm sorry."

"Eh, in prison for one, in prison for a hundred. We both needed to get out of there. Whatever's going on, I'm not gonna just stand around while a kid's in trouble." Héctor shrugged before leaning forward to study the boy's face. "So, chamaco, how are you alive?"

"They said I got cursed," Miguel admitted. "I touched a guitar, and when I looked up I was _here_ , with skeletons everywhere, and the police guys grabbed me and hauled me in and asked _all_ kinds of questions."

"Ay, I know how that goes." Héctor winced sympathetically. "It can't be good for you to be here. It's bad enough, children getting here the usual way. I don't want to think about if this place is gonna start snapping up _living_ kids."

"I think it was just an accident. There was a curse on the guitar or something...but nobody knows how to break it, and the guy who owns it is still alive, so there's no one to ask..." Miguel wrung his hands a bit, then held them up to show his increasingly skeletal fingertips. "The Clerk in the office said I don't have much time before...before I'm _not_ alive any more."

Héctor's eyes widened again at the sight, along with a dismayed grimace. "Ay-ay-ay, that's _not good at all_. How long do you have?"

"I'm not sure. The Clerk said he thought maybe 'til sunrise."

" _Sunrise?_ That's only..." The skeleton paused to count very briefly. "Por Dios, that's not much time to figure out a curse! Maybe you should've stayed with the Department—they've got resources—"

"They were just gonna let me die!"

Héctor stopped talking, looking stunned.

"They knew I was cursed but they didn't have time to try to help. They just said, 'Sorry, we don't know,' and they were gonna make me go sit in a waiting room 'til sunrise, and then they were gonna stick me in a home for dead kids!" Miguel tried not to sniffle, but couldn't help it. "I'm not an orphan, I _have_ a family. I just want to go home..."

Héctor was as still as the grave, staring at him.

"I'm sorry I got you in worse trouble," Miguel went on, wrapping his arms around himself. "You're the only person here who even tried to help me. I was just looking for my papá, I didn't mean to get a curse or anything..."

"I guess...if the Department's just gonna..." Héctor ran a bony hand over his face, still looking unsettled. "L-look, I...I...maybe I know a couple people who _might_ be able to help you find someone who can figure out a curse."

Miguel brightened instantly. "You _do?_ "

"I said _maybe_ ," Héctor insisted, gesturing with a stern finger. "This...curses and stuff, it's not the kind of thing that just happens. At least, not since a really long time ago, from what I've heard."

"That's what the people in the office said," Miguel agreed, nodding. "That's when they decided they couldn't do anything."

"I can't promise anything either, chamaco," the skeleton warned. "If we're dealing with ancient magical stuff, I'm not sure there's anyone that old who's still Remembered."

"Remembered?"

Héctor blinked, then sighed. "Right...alive. So. This place runs on the memories of the living. If you're well-remembered, you're strong and you'll last a long time here; people put your photo on their ofrenda and you get to go across the Bridge and visit them on Día de Muertos—like tonight. Unless you're _me_ , and then nobody even lets you get through the _gate_."

"I didn't get to see a bridge, but..." Miguel frowned a little, studying the calavera-like face of his companion. "Is that why you were in trouble? You didn't have a photo?"

Héctor's shoulders drooped. "No one's ever put mine up...but I still have to try. Sometimes I wonder if my family doesn't know I died, but...it's more likely they're still mad at me for leaving."

"Oh..." Miguel felt a twinge of fear along with the sympathy; he'd run away too, and his mamá wouldn't have any idea he'd disappeared into the Land of the Dead. Maybe if he couldn't get home, she wouldn't put up his photo either—did he even have one? He couldn't remember—because she'd think he was still alive out there somewhere. "I wish I could help."

"Actually, for a minute I thought you might be the answer to my prayers," the skeleton confessed with a small, sheepish half-smile. He reached into a pocket in his jacket and drew out a photo portrait of a grinning, long-nosed face. "You're alive; you could take my picture with you and put it up. Then at least I could get across the Bridge and find my way home."

"This is...you?" Miguel took the offered picture for a closer look, peering at the goofy-looking grin.

"Not bad, huh?" Héctor chuckled awkwardly. "I've lost some weight since that was taken..."

Miguel wrinkled his nose at the poor joke. "So...if I get home, I can put your photo on my family's ofrenda, and...that'll make them let you cross the Bridge?"

"Yes!" The skeleton nodded with restrained excitement. "I've seen people go to ofrendas that aren't family—like old friends or business partners...so it should work!"

"Okay. I'll do it." Miguel glanced down at his bony fingertips with a shaky breath. "But...I don't know if...I'll ever..."

"Hey, hey, it's okay." To his surprise, Héctor reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "I don't know if I can help you either, but I'll give it my best shot."

Miguel looked up at the skeleton, feeling his smile waver back into existence. "Really?"

"I promise," Héctor told him kindly.

"Then...then...I promise, if I can get home, I'll put your photo on the ofrenda _right away_." He wanted to offer _something_ to the man helping him, even if his chances were slim.

"Don't worry about it, chamaco," the skeleton said with a little shrug. "If you get home too late tonight, you can put it up next year. At this point, I've got more time than you, so let's not get in a rush about me just yet."

"Okay." Eager to agree, Miguel nodded rapidly, tucking the portrait in his coat pocket and wiping briskly at his face. "...uh, what do we do now?"

Héctor looked up and down the underpass alley, scratching his chin. "Well...first of all, the Department's gonna be looking for us, so we'll need some disguises..."

Half an hour later, Héctor had painted a simple calavera face on the boy with shoe polish Miguel had in his pockets. With his coat hood pulled up to hide his neck and ears from view, Miguel would pass for a young skeleton at a casual glance. Héctor was so tall he tended to stick up from the crowd, so he wore a brand new straw hat, bought from a street vendor with his last few coins and set firmly over his forehead to cover his bright facial markings.

When they were ready, Miguel put his hand into the large skeletal one, and let Héctor lead him deeper into the Día de Muertos traffic on the streets of the Land of the Dead.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been reposted from tumblr and also cleaned up/edited a bit since then.


End file.
